The Kill Call

right mix of ambition and ability that got you noticed in the force. Blake – that was his name. Gareth Blake. He’d matured now, dressed better and went to a decent hairdresser. He still reeked of ambition, though.
    Fry realized that he was staring at her, that smile still lingering on his face, a bit uncertainly now. She looked from Blake to the woman, and back again.
    ‘So,’ said Fry, ‘I don’t suppose this is a social call. What exactly can I do to help Birmingham CID?’
    Blake introduced the woman with him as Rachel Murchison. She was smartly dressed in a black suit and a white blouse, dark hair tied neatly back, all businesslike and self-confident. Fry cautiously shook hands, wondering why the woman was studying her so closely. She could sense that Branagh was watching her too, from behind her desk. She couldn’t still smell of horse shit, surely? She’d showered three or four times since then, and thrown everything into the wash.
    ‘Rachel is a specialist counsellor who works with us sometimes,’ said Blake.
    So she’d been wrong, then. Not a police officer. Too smartly dressed, perhaps – that should have been the giveaway. The woman was a professional, though. It was that guarded watchfulness that had given Fry a misleading impression.
    ‘What sort of counsellor?’ she asked.
    Blake and Murchison exchanged glances. ‘We can go into that shortly, Diane. There’s a bit of explanation to do first.’
    ‘So what section are you working in these days, Gareth?’
    Fry could hear her voice rising, already developing that strident tone she tried so hard to avoid. Blake raised a placatory hand.
    ‘Let’s take things one step at a time.’
    But Fry shook her head. ‘Tell me what section you’re working in.’
    Branagh looked about to interrupt, but changed her mind. Fry waited, her face set in a grim line.
    Blake sighed. ‘Cold case rape enquiries.’
       
    Gavin Murfin dipped his fingers into a paper bag for an Eccles cake he’d bought on the way into work. At least some things were back to normal, thought Cooper. Murfin had explained that he couldn’t keep the diet up. Not even with all the talk about horse-meat pies.
    ‘You know what?’ said Murfin, after he’d listened to Cooper talk about 1968 and the Royal Observer Corps. ‘We’ve still got one of those here.’
    ‘One of what?’
    ‘One of those … what did you call them? Carrier control points. This is where the four-minute warning came through. I remember my old sergeant showing me the equipment when I was a probationer here.’

    ‘And it’s still here?’
    ‘Right here, in the station. It’s up in the store rooms somewhere. There’s a siren up there, too. Nobody has even tested it for a long time, so far as I know.’
    ‘I had no idea, Gavin. Do you think we’ll get a look at it?’
    ‘Leave it to me.’
    Murfin wandered off and came back a few minutes later with a key he’d obtained from an admin office somewhere in the building. Used his charm, presumably. He waved the key at Cooper.
    ‘Security clearance.’
    In the base of the receiver was a small drawer containing instructions on testing, battery replacement and fault reporting, as well as how to respond to the types of message that might come through. Attack Warning Red, imminent danger of an attack. Fallout Warning Black, danger of fallout. And Attack Message White, the all-clear.
    ‘I don’t suppose it was ever used, except for testing.’
    ‘They had exercises regularly,’ said Cooper. ‘Everyone felt they had to be prepared. Or so I’m told. The ROC posts weren’t closed until 1991, after the collapse of the Soviet Union.’ He looked at Murfin. ‘Do you remember that, Gavin? You’re older than me.’
    ‘Are you kidding? Well, I suppose I was around in 1991, but I was more interested in Silence of the Lambs and Terminator II .’
    ‘I was into Sonic the Hedgehog .’
    ‘You’re such a baby.’
    Cooper tried to imagine the awful piercing wail of the siren. The sound that had never been heard for real in the Cold War.
    ‘So what would you do, then?’ said Murfin suddenly.
    ‘What? Do when?’
    ‘In those last few minutes. If you knew that you had just four minutes to live, like.’

    ‘Blimey, I don’t know. It isn’t much time to do anything really, is it?’
    ‘No, you’re right. Nothing worthwhile.’ Murfin laughed. ‘It makes a joke out of all those “fifty things to do before you die” features in the papers, doesn’t